


Only Memories Will Sustain Us

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Afterlife, Animal Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Gymont has almost forgotten the stench of Paris, surrounded as he is by open fields. He has not forgotten his master.</i> Gymont waits for Javert to come back from the Seine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [the kinkmeme](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?thread=1849491#t1849491).

Gymont does not notice for many days. 

The stableboys brush him and keep him fed. The summer is hot, and Gymont sweats in his stable, itching for the wind on his ears. His master sometimes cannot visit him. He does not begrudge the man that. The only indication that something is wrong is the unshakable restlessness that clings like moss in his stomach and does not pass. 

"Well, Gymont, what are we going to do with you?" Recognizing his name, Gymont lifts his head from the feed trough. One of the stableboys is resting an elbow on his door. "That poor old bastard had no one to give you to." Gymont nickers and nudges the boy's chest—usually he has half a carrot for Gymont. Today he is not forthcoming. He strokes Gymont's nose and sighs. "Though any owner would be better than Inspector Javert, eh?"

Gymont tenses. He knows that name. The weight of his master's absence coalesces. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. Where is his master? Gymont tosses his head and steps nervously in his stable. It takes the stableboy several minutes to calm Gymont; when he leaves, Gymont stands very still and shivers, nosing at the air, trying to catch a scent that is not there.

*

The air is cooling, and the nights stretch. The earth is dying. Gymont has almost forgotten the stench of Paris, surrounded as he is by open fields. He has not forgotten his master. When he is not put to work, he grazes the plot of land and listens with pricked ears for a man's voice. The people who keep him are strange but kind, and he is grateful to them for taking care of him while his master is away. It seems that his trip has been overlong, and Gymont cannot understand why he would go such a far distance without Gymont. No matter the distance, no matter the pace, Gymont has always obeyed, and did his work well.

Gymont is kept in a stable at night, for there are woods not far from the plot of land, and strange shadows wait there. When twilight mutes the earth's colors and the owls begin to swing through the air, Gymont can be found at the far edge of the field, gazing into the shadows of the forest, listening. Some nights a shiver passes over him, his back leg trembling. When the wolves take up their howling, he dances back and forth, nervous, close to taking flight but unable to gallop back to the safety of his stable. Where is his master? As Gymont shivers and whinnies, he knows that he is close, that he cannot be far—but if so, then where is he? And why does he not approach the fence and take Gymont's mane as he once did?

Gymont's breath steams in the cool evenings, and when he is called back to the stable, he turns reluctantly from the fence and returns without looking back.

*

The winter passes into summer, and Gymont paces the edges of the field. It troubles him that his master keeps him waiting.

*

Gymont cannot run like he used to, but that won't worry his master. 

When he's let loose in the morning, he walks to the edge of the fence, grazing as he goes. Dandelions are plentiful this time of year, and he nibbles at their sweet petals. His ears remain pricked, anticipating a familiar voice. It will be any day, now, he knows. He knows it in his spine, knows it like an instinct. When he reaches the edge of the fence, he finds that he is tired from the walk, though it is not so far. Not for a stallion like himself, who, many years ago, raced for leagues without pause, his master guiding him with his strong body. 

At length, Gymont sinks to his knees and rolls onto his side. The sun is hot on his exposed belly. He flicks his tail, watching the forest for movement. His breath stirs the grass. 

The shadows shorten, then grow long. Gymont's ears perk, and he lifts his head—something has caught his eye in the distance. Then he rests his head in the long grass, and does not move again.


	2. Chapter 2

Gymont lifts his head. 

Already he's forgotten the forest, and the field, and the stink of Paris and the spitting sea. As he shakes himself and stands, he forgets fear, too, and pain. 

He has not forgotten Javert. 

The world is dark and nebulous, with shapes in the gloom that fall apart with great groans that could be human. Gymont surveys the area with little interest; his nostrils flare. A black wolf snaps at his flank, but he does not pay it any mind, and his inattention is more powerful than any blow could have been. The wolf falls away with a desperate howl. 

Gymont takes a tentative step into the mist, and from there it is very easy to move. At first he walks, wary of the arrow in his heart pointing him to Javert—a part of him still expects his senses to work for him, and there is no smell or sight or sound of his master to guide him. With each step, he is more sure that this path is the right one, that his master is waiting on the other end. Gymont wonders if the dark shapes are bringing his master to harm. 

At this thought, he breaks into a canter. 

His hooves break apart rocks and glass and refuse, and the shades fall away as he runs. The world becomes a blur as Gymont begins to gallop at a punishing pace. He runs, unaware of time, unaware of the distance, tossing his mane when he angers. At some point, he knows that he should be past the point of exhaustion, but his sweat is cleansing and he has not tired. 

The distance between them does not seem to close, but Gymont's constitution does not falter.

*

Panting, Gymont slows to a trot, and then stops. He steps back and forth uncertainly and shakes his head. He is very close, now, so close that he can smell his master—but he still cannot see him. Wherever they are, a river roars nearby. Gymont is loath to stop when he has come so far, but he is unsure. The shadows are thick, here. They are humans. They do not speak. Can they hurt him? Gymont is not sure, but he knows that Javert is on the other side of their slouching wall, and he begins to trot back and forth along the endless line. With each pass the shades are more formidable, their faces twisted, teeth bared. 

Gymont can't bear to be so close to his master and thwarted by such a pitiful blockade. With an indignant scream, Gymont rears and brings his hooves down on the closest shade—it swirls into nothingness like smoke. That is enough to steel Gymont, and he barrels forward, kicking and biting as he goes.

He breaks through the line and stops, gathering his wits. Then he sees Javert, standing at the edge of the river, head down, coat torn. He is a stone. He does not even breathe. 

But the sight of him fills Gymont with a joy that bursts from him; with a whinny, he rushes to his master's side. He prances next to him and nuzzles at his neck and face.

Javert does not move. He stares into the river. 

Gymont chews on his hair and nickers gently. When that does nothing to rouse him, he tugs on his collar. 

His master remains still.

With a frustrated snort, Gymont noses at his pockets, then his hand. It is that which breaks Javert from his reverie, slowly. As if he's forgotten how to move, he presses his hand against Gymont's nose. He turns his head. "Ah," he says. Gymont lifts himself to his full height, knowing how impressive he looks, foam on his coat, his mane a tangled mess from the wind. "Ah." Javert glances at the river, then back to Gymont. "What are you doing here?" he asks, stroking Gymont's neck. 

Gymont pushes him with his shoulder, shoves until his master is buckling and has to grab hold of him for balance. Javert smiles—a small thing, almost imperceptible. Gymont cannot hear the river any longer, though its roiling waters still rush by. "Yes," his master says agreeably, "yes, I see you, you ninny. Get off. What do you want?" Gymont happily bites at his nose, and his master swats his cheek. There is a snap of cards, and his master's smile fades. Chains rustle among the shadows.

Gymont was born for this. In his life, when his muscles tired and his heart ached, he bore his master to hell and back, no matter the weather, no matter the season. Here, where Gymont knows only vigor, he will take him endlessly—it does not matter to where, so long as it is away from the river, which haunts Javert even now, though one hand is carded through Gymont's tangled mane.

“This is no place for a horse,” Javert says. A shudder passes over him, and he clutches more fiercely to Gymont. The sweat of fear is pungent on him, and Gymont nuzzles his neck, reassuring. “I don’t imagine God would have any use for the penitence of a beast. Why did you come for me, then?” 

Gymont starts to back away from the riverside. His master does not let go, stretching his arms and then leaning forward, with Gymont as his anchor and his feet unable to leave their place at the bank. Gymont snorts and shakes his head. He watched, in another life, as his master stubbornly refused pleas from men and women—but his master never refused him.

“Woah, Gymont—woah.” 

With an indignant snort, Gymont stops. Around them the shades are restless, jingling as they move. Whatever has woken in Javert seems to have woken them as well, and they trap the master and horse in a semi-circle: Spectres all around, the river at his back. His master’s hands tremble in his mane, but he does not look away from Gymont. “I can’t abandon my post,” he insists.

The spectres are very close—their hands reach for Javert and touch his coat. Gymont wants to snap at them, to drive his hooves into them until it is only his master and him and the river—but something stops him. He stands very still, as if waiting for his master to attach his saddle. “Please,” Javert says, suddenly, “Gymont, there is no way to go on.”

But he is wrong. Gymont’s love is a torch inside him, and the light it burns is clean. He steps forward, and his master’s arms wrap around his neck. Javert presses his face into Gymont’s strong neck, hiding his doubts there. A woman, a dark swirl of mist, reaches out her hand to his master, and gently strokes back his hair. Javert shudders.

Then, his master swings himself onto Gymont’s back—he grips Gymont’s mane in his hands, and his knees tighten around Gymont’s strong back. He whistles sharply, and Gymont knows he should break into a trot, but he can’t help it—he flies through the spectres, galloping faster than he ever did in life. He runs without knowing where or why.

Javert does not speak again.

*

The mist begins to clear. Sunlight filters down through patches of cloud. Javert's labored breath is as sweet as the breath of life to Gymont, who can hardly contain his happiness. They are together, truly together at last, and nothing could be sweeter than that. Soon, the clouds clear away, and Gymont slows to a trot, then a walk. At length, Javert tells him to stop. They are standing on a grassy knoll, where the breeze is cool and tender as it blows. His master dismounts, his gaze fixed on the distance—far away, but not impassably so, is a white city with no gates. In the fields between, there are streams and dotted farms. 

Gymont nudges the tears away from his master's face. 

They walk together down the knoll, taking their time, wanting nothing.


End file.
